at the brink
my world is seemingly crashing down on me.
i am due for graduation this march 19. but at the rate i'm going, it doesn't look like that plan is pushing through. as i write this, i have a thesis and at least 5 more papers due for submission by tuesday next week. i need a miracle for that to happen.
in addition, coach is at the hospital and will be confined there for another two weeks after a freak accident. how freaky is freaky? he fell from his third floor bathroom window while attempting to retrieve his necklace. he had stepped on something sharp, recoiled, and fallen, butt and back first. but i am thankful that he's alive and quite well although he needed a spinal surgery and has to undergo phyiscal therapy.
these days, i look like the walking dead. back in first year, my friends teased me about looking like a zombie because i walked with my arms outstretched, ready to give and receive hugs. but that's not why i look like a zombie again: i lack sleep, am under an incredible amount of stress and currently at the brink of a total breakdown.
oh well, go ateneo. i love you still.
sand scribbles by isea , 8:42 a. m.
THE BLACKBIRDS ARE ROUGH TODAY
lonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.
shot down like an ex-pug selling
dailies on the corner.
taken by tears like
an aging chorus girl
who has gotten her last check.
a hanky is in order your lord your
worship.
the blackbirds are rough today
like
ingrown toenails
in an overnight
jail---
wine wine whine,
the blackbirds run around and
fly around
harping about
Spanish melodies and bones.
and everywhere is
nowhere---
the dream is as bad as
flapjacks and flat tires:
why do we go on
with our minds and
pockets full of
dust
like a bad boy just out of
school---
you tell
me,
you who were a hero in some
revolution
you who teach children
you who drink with calmness
you who own large homes
and walk in gardens
you who have killed a man and own a
beautiful wife
you tell me
why I am on fire like old dry
garbage.
we might surely have some interesting
correspondence.
it will keep the mailman busy.
and the butterflies and ants and bridges and
cemeteries
the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics
will still go on a
while
until we run out of stamps
and/or
ideas.
don't be ashamed of
anything; I guess God meant it all
like
locks on
doors.
By: Charles Bukowski
thank you, wappy. is it just me or is that beat? *le hug*